


some weaknesses

by bigstrongboss



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Mention of Nazis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-12-30 12:12:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18315047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigstrongboss/pseuds/bigstrongboss
Summary: jane doesn't cry.





	some weaknesses

**Author's Note:**

> this is the one fic that has survived the purge of all my demosolly content even tho i still hate it LOL anyway enjoy

Jane doesn’t cry.  
  
Jane doesn’t cry because he’s a man, a strong one at that, and strong men don’t cry. They grit their teeth and bear the weight of the world and thank God for giving them the opportunity to do so.  
  
Jane doesn’t cry because he isn’t a sissy. He’d like to see a sissy crack a man’s skull open with a shovel or break his own legs to gain an advantage over the enemy or pull out a Nazi’s guts with nothing but his bare hands and a rusty butter knife. Sissies are weak and hysterical and crying is their expression of that.  
  
He remembers Pa calling him a sissy when he tried to hide behind Ma’s skirt during one of Pa’s fits. Pa called him a lot of things when he was little. Pa died before he could prove none of it was true. He didn’t cry at Pa’s funeral.  
  
Jane doesn’t cry, even when other men do. When he was in Poland, he watched as a man was held down and beaten for refusing to cooperate with an investigation into a neighbour. He watched as he screamed and bawled and couldn’t help but feel disgusted by the man’s inability to fight back. He lay there like a limp fish and took his beating as if he deserved it. That was the sign of a weak man.  
  
Only a few weeks later, Jane had attempted to infiltrate a Nazi platoon. ‘Attempted’ being the crucial term- he was hardly built for stealth, and he lacked the necessary linguistic skills to lie his way through. He laughed when they crushed his fingers. He tried to when they broke his rib, although it ended up as more of a wheeze. They wanted to know who he was working for, what he wanted. He spat at their feet and grinned until they knocked out his front teeth.  
  
Jane doesn’t cry because crying is vulnerability, and vulnerability is always exploited.  
  
Tavish cried. He cried more than anyone Jane had ever met before. He cried when he was sad or angry or even when he was happy. He cried when he was drunk and he cried when he was sober. He said there was no shame in it, that repressing your feelings was unhealthy. He didn’t think less of anyone for turning on the waterworks and he didn’t give a damn if anyone thought any less of him. Not his problem.  
  
In retrospect, it shouldn’t have been surprising that Tavish was weak all along. A coward, a traitor. Jane cursed himself for being so naïve and letting himself be manipulated by a man who wore skirts. The bastard just wanted to see him crack, see a stronger man brought down to his level. He probably got off on it.  
  
So he squared his jaw and took Tavish’s betrayal on the chin with a façade of hardiness that would have made Pa proud. He didn’t fall into a depressive slump, he didn’t turn to the bottle and whine and sob to his teammates like a pathetic wreck- he got his knuckles bloody and synapses sparking with white-hot overwhelming rage, like real men do.  
  
Jane doesn’t cry because he doesn’t need tears to express what his fists can.  
  
And he killed Tavish over and over, until they told him he’d done it so much he’d won the war and earned his prize (“What prize? Lady, are you bribing me to stop?”), which had been something of a disappointment because he liked killing Tavish even if it left him so angry that when battle ended at 4pm and they headed back to base his teammates scattered at the mere sound of his footsteps.

Jane doesn’t cry because people don’t fear a man who cries, and if they don’t fear him, they don’t respect him.  
  
The Gunboats hurt to wear. They’re a size or four too small and he can never quite get all the fragments of shrapnel out. Medic tells him that he should carry a banner instead and support the team. Jane calls him a kraut and tells him to go to hell. Engie shoots him a warning look and Jane leers until he turns back to his conversation with Heavy about some intellectual fluff. He waits for them to leave before he limps out of the room.  
  
Ma could never afford shoes that fit, after Pa died. She couldn’t afford much anything. They sold everything, all of Pa’s books and memorabilia, but at the end of the day there still there wasn’t any money left to dress him in anything but her hand-me-downs. Blisters and calluses were old rivals he would never smooth things out with.  
  
Jane doesn’t cry because when you admit that the pain gets to you it never relents.

He wears the Gunboats everywhere, even off the battlefield. They’re his pride, a symbol of his resilience much like his medals. He’s wearing them when the end of the war is suddenly announced and Miss Pauling hurries him to a small conference room, no time to explain, she’s got something very important to tell him and she’d appreciate if he would hear her out.

Tavish is sitting there with a bloodshot eye and tear-streaked cheek. Miss Pauling places a firm hand on Jane’s arm before he can do anything, pulling a chair our and gesturing for him to sit down. He does, hunching over like a gargoyle, refusing to deign Tavish with any form of acknowledgement unless it’s in the form of a bloody nose.

Miss Pauling is composed, as she always is, when she tells them the truth. She doesn’t apologise. She provides an irrefutable account of how she manipulated them and why she did so and leaves while they’re still too dumbstruck to try and confront her. The Gunboats on his feet feel more uncomfortable than ever.

Neither of them know how to react. Tavish shifts his chair closer and slings an arm loosely around Jane’s shoulders. He’s saying something but Jane can’t hear it over the pressure in his ears. Wordlessly, he buries his head against Tavish’s chest, shoulders shaking, fists clenched so tightly his nails could have permanently cleaved through the palms of his hands.

Jane doesn’t notice that he’s crying until Tavish tells him he’s strong for doing so.

Maybe he ought to believe him.

**Author's Note:**

> this is technically an april fools fic because i'm a clown for writing it instead of studying


End file.
